HIS SANDALS

They lay at the foot of the cross
Where they were carelessly thrown,
The sandals that had walked far
On His feet, the true path shown.

They were dusty and blood stained,
Forgotten by all who were there.
The soldiers didn’t want them,
His followers too hurt of care.

At His death, the heavens cried,
Washed the dirt and blood away
From those dear old sandals
That had tramped far day by day.

A barefooted man found them,
He knew to whom they did belong,
Could he wear them? Be in those shoes?
He felt it would not be wrong.

At the moment he put them on,
His whole life seemed to change.
He just wanted to do good to all,
Do good things not in his range.

He saw a man, feet bleeding and sore,
And he thought what he ought to do,
He slipped the sandals from his feet,
With that simple act, the Lord he knew.

The story could go on and on
Till those sandals wore out
But we know that God’s love
Will out last the sandals, without doubt.

M Ann Margetson 5 December 1998 ©

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